Vince May - Presumed Dead

Philippe had been climbing steadily for about twenty minutes when he first heard the distant beat of the rescue helicopter reverberating in the valley below. Turning around, he watched the blue and white machine come into view, following the centerline of the Mer de Glace as it snaked up the valley towards its source. He could just make out the observer sitting in the rear cabin with the door slid back, scanning the mountainside through binoculars. As soon as they go past the next ridge, he thought, they should spot her.

Sure enough, as he watched, the helicopter passed beyond the ridge that contained the glacier he was sitting on then suddenly veered to the left out of sight. With a sigh of deep satisfaction, he turned and started to climb again.

Alice jumped to her feet and slipped her backpack on as soon as the thumping reverberation of the helicopter started to echo up from the valley. It was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. As soon as the machine came around the corner, she waved the makeshift flag above her head for all she was worth, screaming, ‘Over here… over here!’ at the top of her lungs.

Suddenly, the helicopter seemed to stop in mid air, then it turned abruptly and headed straight towards her. Alice felt a surge of relief flow through her body as she dropped the flag and waved her arms up and down.

As the blue and white helicopter climbed up the valley towards her, the noise grew steadily louder until she thought her eardrums would burst. Hoping the pilot had got the message that she needed help, she stopped waving her arms, and stuck her fingers in her ears as the thunderous machine settled into a hover just yards from the edge of the slab that she was standing on.

The huge downdraft from the rotors blew her poncho and pole away and half blinded her with a blast of snow and loose stones, forcing her to stagger backwards and cower against the rock face behind her with her ears plugged and her eyes tightly shut.

As the flying debris pebble-dashed Alice’s bare legs making them sting painfully, the helicopter slowly edged in towards the slab, and with great skill, the pilot gently rested one ski against the rock as the observer jumped from the craft and headed towards her in a crouched run. He grabbed her by the arm and shouted something that she couldn’t hear, then led her back to the hovering helicopter with one arm around her shoulders, forcing her to bend almost double under the thrashing blades. As soon as they were both in the rear cabin, the observer made her sit in a small jump-seat then slid the door shut. Although the battering down-draught was blocked out, the noise level was still painfully high.

Alice watched, with fingers in ears, as the observer, who had been wearing a helmet with a curly lead attached, plugged it into an intercom panel. As the helicopter started to climb and bank to the right, he reached into a locker and came out with a headset, which he gently placed on Alice’s head, adjusting the boom microphone so that it was right in front of her lips. She breathed a sigh of relief as the terrible noise from the engines and rotors was blocked out, then heard a crackle as the observer plugged her headset leads into the intercom so that he could speak to her.

‘Are you all right, Madame?’ he asked in French. ‘Don’t worry, we will be at the hospital in five minutes.’

‘I don’t need to go to hospital,’ Alice protested. ‘Can’t you just take me back to Chamonix?’

‘I’m afraid not, Madame, it is our policy to take anyone we pick up in the mountains directly to the hospital for a check up.’

Alice saw that it was no use arguing.

‘What is your name?’ the observer asked conversationally.

‘Alice Webley,’ she replied.

The observer’s brows knitted. ‘That name sounds familiar… wait a minute, we were searching for you earlier in the week, then it was called off when…’ He stopped abruptly.

‘When what?’ Alice asked innocently.

But the observer wasn’t listening. He’d flipped a switch on the intercom and was speaking to the pilot who was craning his neck around, looking at her with amazement.

Down in Chamonix, Batard was sitting in his office going over some papers when there was a knock at the door and his sergeant poked his head in. ‘They’re asking for you in the control room sir,’ he said.

Batard heaved a sigh, got up from behind his desk and walked through into the control room, where the radio equipment was housed. The operator saw him come in and said, ‘The pilot of Rescue One wants to speak to you sir.’

Batard took the handheld microphone he was offered. Depressing the transmit key he said, ‘Batard here, go ahead Rescue One.’

The wall mounted speaker crackled into life. ‘Rescue One to base. You’re not going to believe this sir, but we’ve just picked a woman up from the Couvercle Hut. She says her name is Madame Alice Webley!’

Batard was dumbstruck. His mind whirled as he recalled the events of the past week. ‘Is she injured?’ he asked.

‘Doesn’t appear to be,’ the pilot replied, ’but we’re en route to the hospital anyway.’

‘Very good, I’ll drive over and meet you there immediately,’ Batard said, throwing the microphone down. Dashing back to his office, he grabbed his cap then ran out to his car and headed across town to the hospital, lights flashing and siren wailing.

Back in Minster at Stone, Ross woke to the sound of Doctor Mason clattering around in the kitchen making breakfast. Looking like death and feeling decidedly delicate, he stood up unsteadily and followed the sound. He could remember shouting at the doctor and felt he’d probably said far too much. He decided the best thing now was a damage limitation exercise.

Mason was standing in front of the cooker wearing an old brown dressing gown, frying bacon and eggs. The smell of the greasy food made Ross feel even worse as he sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

‘Like some breakfast?’ Mason asked cheerfully as he heard him come in.

‘No thank you,’ Ross replied groggily. ‘Just some tea if I may.’

‘Help yourself,’ Mason said, pointing to the teapot already sitting on the table under a knitted cozy.

He poured himself a cup while Mason slid the contents of his frying pan onto a plate then joined him at the table. Ross looked at the pile of greasy food and almost gagged.

‘Look, about last night,’ Ross started, ‘I’m sorry if I…’

‘Don’t say another word about it,’ Mason said genially, holding his hand up. ‘You’d had a few too many, that’s all. Could happen to anyone.’

‘Thank you for seeing it that way, ‘ Ross said humbly. ‘I’m afraid I was rather rude.’

‘Nonsense … you were upset. Quite understandable.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Ross insisted, ‘I had no right to speak to you like that… I apologize.’

‘Apology accepted, now, let’s say no more about it,’ Mason said, tucking into his breakfast. Ross tried not to watch him eat because it made him feel sick.

After the doctor had mopped the last of his egg yoke up with a piece of bread he said, ‘I shouldn’t worry about this exhumation business too much if I were you. They’re not likely to find anything.’

‘How do you mean?’ Ross asked innocently.

‘It’s been nearly twenty five years since she was buried,’ Mason replied, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much left of her now, and besides, she was so full of the drugs I prescribed for her, they’ll probably never find the stuff you gave her.’

‘Who said I gave her anything?’ Ross asked angrily.

‘You did, last night. Up until then, I hadn’t believed it, but you gave yourself away by coming here and getting so upset.’